


The Mechanics of Flight

by Scarlet



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet/pseuds/Scarlet
Summary: Charlotte's gift to Lady Fitz.





	The Mechanics of Flight

She’s never really here. When they kiss her, when she kisses them, when they fuck her, when she fucks them, her mind drifts away, untethered, flies to the high up places where they can’t reach her.

Sometimes it’s her bedroom back home, (she used to complain at length that Lucy had the better room, but truth be told she loved her cramped little space up in the attic because it was the quietest place in the house. She would bury her face in the pillow, breathe in the crisp clean linen in an attempt to erase the stench of the culls that clung to her skin like cold wax).

Sometimes, it’s the tavern, filled with the smoke and raucous laughter of her pa’s friends, men who’d carried tiny Charlotte on their broad grubby shoulders, men who’d taught her to play cards and count coins and let her take sips from their ales without wanting anything in return (and if one happened to want something, Nance would materialise right beside her, with a jaw chiselled from flint and a look that peeled the skin right off their balls).

Sometimes, Charlotte pictures a meadow, the blades of grass and wildflowers gently swaying in the summer breeze. And sometimes it isn’t even a place, just an ocean of soundless white, high, high above, looking down as the Charlotte below laughs and moans and pretends she likes them, desires them, wants them.

The mechanism is so deeply embedded, so much a part of her, like a spare muscle flexing on its own, that she’s forgotten how not to do it. She tried to explain it to Daniel Marney, that she knew how to fuck but not how to love, but she wasn’t entirely sure he understood. Her night with him had been sweet, she hadn’t drifted as high as she normally did, had almost managed to _stay_ , but not entirely. Love didn’t exist for Harlots, Charlotte had meant every word. She did enjoy sex, which was a blessing for her kind, but her heart had never been a participant to any of her games.

This is why she doesn’t expect things to be any different as she leans forward to kiss Lady Fitz, even if her action stems from a genuine desire to comfort the heiress whose rigid posture tells everything Charlotte needs to know about how touch-starved Isabella is.

As their lips meet, Charlotte expects the familiar soaring to follow. Yet it doesn’t... Isabella’s hand comes up to cover hers, warm fingers pressing Charlotte’s hand against her peach-soft cheek, a silent plea laced with gratitude all at once; and suddenly Charlotte finds herself anchored down and very much _here_. She feels the warmth of the fire at her back, hears the crackling of the logs, breathes in the delicate unknown flowers of Lady Fitz’s perfume, tastes the honey of her breath, feels the tell-tale warmth of her own desire blossoming low in her belly, flying embers swirling up her spine like sparkling vines. Isabella lets out a small sound between a sigh and a whimper and Charlotte gently pulls away.

“I... thank you,” Isabella stammers, blushing and lowering her gaze, neatly folding her hands on her lap once more.

“You’re welcome,” Charlotte replies, pushing down the Gordian knot of unfamiliar emotions surging up her chest, unwilling to give it a closer look.

Marie Louise once told her lulls in conversations meant angels were passing above. Charlotte reckons there must be a whole flock of them jostling over their heads right now, as silence stretches between them. 

For days now, lady Fitzwilliam had been an open book of confused jealousy and longing which struck Charlotte as strangely endearing and more than a little thrilling. Charlotte was used to dealing with the wealthy crowd, but true aristocracy was a different world where her kind seldom ventured. To form a friendship with someone like Isabella Fitzwilliam was unheard of, to share a common purpose, even less so, and to find out that the beautiful heiress had a scarred soul that matched her own... now that, was utterly bewildering.

But not as bewildering as having Isabella entrust her with her secret. A confession that spoke of a deed so wretched, so sordid, that it made Charlotte wish she’d bitten the marquess of Blayne’s cock off and spit it out in his chamber pot when she had the chance.

Next to her, Isabella moves to stand up.

Charlotte’s hand shoots out to grab her wrist as she does.

“Stay.”

Isabella’s eyes widen. “Here?” And Charlotte hears all of Isabella’s upbringing and class and status stampede forth in that one word. Charlotte lets her hand drop. “A night in a brothel’s too much for your ladyship, uh?” she teases.

“You have no idea the risks I’ve taken by coming here. Twice,” Isabella bristles. “I can’t expect you to understand, harlots have no reputation to besmirch”.

“You’re an idiot if you believe this,” Charlotte counters, rising to her feet. “Our lives can be ruined as fast as yours, all it takes is a displeased cull. Our name in Harris’s List can decide whether we’ll starve or not, whether we’ll get fucked for tuppence down cheapside, or twenty guineas at Quigley’s.”

Isabella’s eyes widen at Charlotte’s bluntness. Her face hardens, her gaze grows remote, haughtiness straightening her back. “We both know my brother paid more than twenty guineas for the pleasure of your company.”

“And this no doubt makes me the queen of whores,” Charlotte snaps, slapping both hands on her hips.

Isabella shakes her head in disbelief, turns away and starts heading for the door. “I bid you goodnight, Miss Wells.”

Charlotte throws her head back and starts laughing. Isabella stops in her tracks, half turning in her cumbersome dress to stare at Charlotte like she’s lost her mind.

“Oh, I know what you’re doing,” Charlotte says, wiping her nose with a flick of her hand and walking up to Isabella.

“I’m leaving,” Isabella states, taking a few more steps and reaching out for the door handle.

“Is this how you deal with your brother? Make him so angry he won’t want to be in the same room with you?”

“How dare you talk to me this way?” Isabella’s voice shakes with righteous outrage.

Charlotte moves closer, reaches out for Isabella, but the woman bats her hands away, “you claim to be my friend, yet say those beastly things to me.”

“Isabella, listen,” Charlotte insists.

“I should not have come here again. Let me go.”

“Will you please just listen?” Charlotte firmly takes hold of both of Isabella’s hands, who this time, doesn’t pull away. “Isabella, I’m not him. You don’t have to upset me to refuse me”.

Isabella stares at her in shock. “This isn’t... I don’t... I’m not refus...” her eyes well up, and Charlotte’s heart breaks at the sight. There is so much pain and anguish there, grief Charlotte could have avoided causing. Cruelty must be contagious, she’s been at Quigley’s for too long.

Charlotte squeezes Isabella’s hands, leans forward to plant a brief kiss on her cheek. “Look, I’m sorry. Let’s just admit we’re both terrible at friendship and start again, shall we?”

Isabella takes a deep shuddering breath in which ends in an unexpected chuckle. “We are indeed very bad,” she agrees, squeezing Charlotte’s hands back.

“We’ll get better,” Charlotte promises, and the smile Isabella shoots her in that moment is ravishing.

Isabella frees one of her hand to stroke Charlotte's cheek. “Come home with me.”

Charlotte frowns. “What about... him?”

“My brother is a creature of habit, he will be out gambling until dawn. This is how I was able to come here tonight.”

Charlotte shakes her head “And what if he changes his mind? What if he doesn’t enjoy his evening, if something irks him, or if he loses too many coins at the tables and decides to come back early? Do you know what he will do to me if he finds me in your house? In your bed?” Charlotte grips Isabella’s hand tighter, urging her to understand. “You’re already here, and right now, this house is safer than your own. For both of us."

Isabella holds Charlotte’s gaze with serious eyes, hesitating.

"And if as you say your brother is out until dawn, then... we have until dawn." Charlotte leans closer until her lips are scant inches away from Isabella’s, “let me give this to you. Stay.” she whispers, punctuating her last word with the softest of kisses.

Isabella’s colour rises to her cheeks as she nods. This is all the encouragement Charlotte needs. She pulls on Isabella’s hands and leads her outside the parlour and up the stairs.

Charlotte picks the room reserved for the wealthiest culls, which is on the top floor away from the smaller rooms down below. She ushers, Isabella in.

“How lovely,” Isabella says politely. Charlotte smirks, knowing full well the room isn’t anywhere near the heiress’s usual standards.

Charlotte locks the door behind them. Without a word she starts undressing Isabella, removing the gown first then moving behind her to unlace her petticoats and stays in a slow but efficient manner. She then invites Isabella to sit at the small dressing table and removes the pins, cushions and rollers holding Isabella’s hair in place, styling the woman’s thick dark curls it into a loose braid.

“I’m afraid I’m quite useless,” Isabella tells Charlotte moments later, laughing nervously at her own clumsiness as she helps Charlotte undress. 

Charlotte turns around, gently cup Isabella’s face in her hands and shushes her with a kiss. She keeps it light and undemanding, not wanting to spook her. “You’re doing just fine,” she whispers against Isabella’s lips, then turns around once again so Isabella can finish unlacing her stays.

Charlotte quickly works on her own hair before drawing Isabella into her arms for another kiss. She can feel the heat of Isabella’s body underneath their thin linen shifts, the weight of her full breasts against her own chest. And again Charlotte is _here_ , in the room, within herself rather than drifting above like she usually does.

She is here when Isabella opens her mouth under the soft pressure of Charlotte’s lips, is here when Isabella jerks her head back with a shocked little “oh” and brings curious fingers to her lips after their tongues touch for the first time. She is here when, with burning eyes, Isabella crushes their lips together, wanting to experience the sensation again, her fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of Charlotte’s neck.

There is no distance when Charlotte takes Isabella by the hand and leads her to the wide blue bed, no flight when they peel their shifts off from one another. Charlotte is whole, in that bed as she tastes the rosebuds of Isabella’s breasts, listens to the crescendo of her cries, as her knowledgeable mouth summons the waters between Isabella’s thighs. Charlotte is here for it all as Isabella ebbs and flows underneath her, when her spine arches off the bed, and her nails dig into Charlotte’s shoulders as she sobs her pleasure with her face pressed against the white pillows. 

And when afterwards, Isabella breaks down in her arms, Charlotte stays with her through it all, tasting the salt of Isabella’s tears as she peppers her eyelids and cheeks with featherlight kisses, rocking her slowly while whispering soothing nonsense in her hair.

_You’re not damned, you’re not damned, you are free now, you are loved..._

Charlotte smiles when later during the night, a drowsy Isabella, all loose-limbed from sleep, seeks her lips again, one pale hand shyly coming up to rest on Charlotte’s thigh, not daring to go further. Charlotte links their fingers together and guides their joined hands between her own legs, showing Isabella what to do. The wide-eye awe on Isabella’s face is the most delicious sight Charlotte’s ever witnessed. And the moans Isabella drinks from Charlotte’s mouth, once she finds the right rhythm, are very real.

They make love many times that night, Charlotte can’t call it anything else. What happens between them isn’t fucking, isn't a transaction between a cull and a harlot. It’s a gift of intimacy, of tenderness, a salve on their bruised and battered souls.

As the first morning light filters through the curtains, Charlotte wakes up to find Isabella by her side, watching her, with her head propped on her elbow.

She lifts a hand and traces the line of Charlotte’s jaw with one finger. “You are truly exquisite Miss Wells, “ she says in a low voice.

Charlotte smiles, tucks a loose curl behind Isabella’s ear. “So are you.”

“Have you been with many women before?”

“Some, not many.”

“Is it always this good?”

Charlotte chuckles, slips her hand behind Isabella’s neck to pull her in for a lazy kiss. “No.”

_It’s never been this good._

Isabella beams at her, her smile warm and true as a summer’s day and Charlotte kisses her again just for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I do not have a beta for this fandom, this work hasn't been proof-read. Do not hesitate to point out typos, errors or anything that sounds clunky or doesn't work. I'd be most grateful. 
> 
> I figured that things between them wouldn't be as easy as "let's go upstairs and fuck," that Isabella would initially freak out at the idea of being intimate with anyone. I wondered how that fear would express itself. This story is my answer. I hope you enjoy it.


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